Of Apologies and the Fine Art of Toaster Strudel
by Miacakes
Summary: Oneshot. An imagining of the events that led from "Come over so I can tell you something" to "Hold my hair". Set during episode 1x09.


**A/N:** The Kat/Patrick pairing is quickly becoming one of my favourite fictional couples ever. Therefore, I did not appreciate the lack of back story for the 'Hold my hair' comment. It would have been epic. So, I decided to write my own.

This is my first 10 Things fic. I tried not to delve too deeply into the characters' feelings for one another; I enjoy watching that unfold on the show.

I don't own 10 Things. If I did it would be a one-hour show with new episodes aired daily. Gotta feed that habit.

*******

**Of Apologies and the Fine Art of Toaster Strudel**

Patrick hung up the phone after Kat had finally extracted a promise from him to be at her house within the next twenty minutes. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have bothered getting up from his bed, but there was something strangely appealing about seeing Kat happy. The few times Patrick had seen her genuinely pleased her demeanour had relaxed out of its customary scowl. Her eyes had brightened and her mouth stretched into a sweet grin.

Also she had sounded wasted on the phone and that was a sight he was not going to pass up.

When Patrick arrived at her house, in less time than the Californian traffic cops would have approved of, the party was going strong. You know a social event is good when there are not one, but_ two_ pairs of girls macking on one another as soon as you walk in. But, as he viewed the sea of obscenely gyrating bodies through which he would have to weave his way, Patrick decided to use the alternate and much preferable entrance he had previously employed to gain access to the Stratford household. No magic staffs needed there. Moses could suck it.

He walked back out of the front door, past a bowlful of seriously strange paper wristbands, and around to the side of house. The trellis was quickly scaled, but a small wooden splinter embedded itself into the heart line on Patrick's left hand. "God trellis, what the fuck d'you go and do that for?" he complained rather loudly.

"Is someone out there?" He heard Kat's voice inside her room. "I swear to God, if you guys have moved from my closet to my balcony for your totally gross make-out session then I don't care how drunk or pacifist I am, I _will_ spay you guys like the two little bitches that y-" She broke off her tirade as soon as she stuck her head out of her window and recognised Patrick.

"Patrick!" Kat smiled widely.

"Should I be worried?" Patrick asked with a sideways glance at the yellow rubber gloves she was wearing.

Her expression was confused and wide-eyed; then her eyes followed his gaze towards the rubber gloves and Febreeze she was holding. Her eyes widened even more. "Nooo, I was cleaning."

"Cleaning?" Patrick asked dubiously.

She nodded and answered "Mhh-hmm," as if it was the most natural thing in the world before she turned back towards her room.

Patrick followed her in, only to see her ineffectually drenching the inside of her closet with two different spray bottles.

"What are you doing?"

She looked around furtively. "There were…," she whispered the next word, "_people_ in there."

"People? Really?" Patrick titled his head pensively. "You know once the voices in your head start telling you to plot a government overthrow or something it's probably time to stop listening…"

She glared at him, but was too drunk to do it with any of her usual conviction. "I meant _actual_ people. Some guy in a freakishly hip t-shirt and his dumb brunette."

"Wow, is the femi-Nazi objectifying women?"

Kat frowned into the middle-distance. "Some girls don't do the rest of us any favours," she said to her dresser, shaking her head.

Patrick took in her attire. The oversized shirt revealed a great deal of pale neckline and toned legs. With her dishevelled hair she looked as if she's just come out of bed. In a _really_ good way.

Instead of questioning the motives for her wardrobe change he asked, "So, what was so urgent that you had to drink-dial me?"

"Oh, right." Kat threw the Febreeze on the floor and pushed Patrick to sit down on the edge of her bed. Then she stood in front of him for a moment, twisting her be-rubbered hands.

She swayed slightly; presumably whatever had loosened her dial-happy fingers had also impacted her balance. "I owe you an apology."

Patrick raised a brow. "Is that so?"

Kat nodded and took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have called you China."

He sighed, "Yeah that cut deep; brought me right back to my predilection for oppressing countries beginning with T."

Kat nodded seriously, "I also shouldn't have called you a criminal or yelled at you. I'm sorry."

Under the influence of alcohol Kat had lost her cynicism. She seemed sweet, almost innocent, as she was standing in front of him, looking both apologetic and expectant. Patrick smiled. "Apology accepted."

"You just don't make it easy," she added.

"What do you mean?"

She scratched her neck. "Umm, do you want a Power Point presentation or will an oral list do?"

"Oral will do," Patrick smirked.

She began to count her points off on her fingers. "Ok, firstly, your motorcycle. It must give off pheromones or something, because you have a different girl on your arm every week. I mean, do you have a greenhouse for generic hotties at your house? Is a 'Grow Your Own Girlfriend' the new at-home pot den?" She waved an accusing arm about the room before continuing. "And you accuse me of being mercurial," at this point Patrick had to admire her ability to use big words while inebriated, "yet you are just as bad. Sometimes, I feel like I'm trying to deal with my Aunt Nora's menopausal mood swings. One minute you're saying that we should keep our distance and the next you're climbing through my bedroom window like one of those damn Dawson's River kids. It's like you have some strange compulsion to screw with my sanity…You're just not an easy person to trust."

Kat trailed off, leaving Patrick to wonder if she was the only person on the planet who would repeatedly offend someone while trying to apologise. "Any more where that came from?"

Kat looked uncomfortable. "I'm a talkative drunk. I need to work on that."

She pulled off the rubber gloves, thereby revealing that she had written something down the length of her left arm.

Patrick tilted his head to make sense of the messy scrawl. "Are some of those characters even real letters? You know the alphabet only goes from A to Z, right?"

Kat shoved him playfully. "Ahh man, you just ruined the freaking ending for me!"

Patrick smiled and swiped her arm, holding it in front of him. A slow grin spread across his face as he laboriously deciphered Kat's handwriting.

"So," he said at length, "what exactly made you write this on your arm?"

Kat frowned. "What did I write?"

"You don't remember?"

Kat seemingly attempted to shake her head by lopping it from side to side. She squinted at her arm. "I heart Pat-," she stopped reading and coloured slightly, then looked back at her arm, "Pa- …paternity," she finished. "It's supposed to say "I heart paternity leave. I'm a big supporter of equal parental leave benefits, but I guess I was too drunk to add the last part."

"Yeah," Patrick said as he picked up a black marker from her desk that would have served as Exhibit A if he had decided to pursue the question further, "it's amazing how much alcohol can impair your ability to bullshit." He smirked. "So, what have you been doing for the past couple of hours? Except drinking and cleaning."

Kat frowned. "I don't know; it's all a little blurry. I do have vague recollections of shaving some guy's head, though."

Patrick quirked an interested brow, "Anyone I know?"

She nodded, "He goes to our school." Then she narrowed her eyes, "I think I called him Spike."

"Okaaayy, what was his _real_ name?"

Kat smiled brightly. "I have no idea."

Patrick shook his head. Whether this was necessary because of amusement or to clear his mind of wide, sparkling Kat smiles he did not wish to investigate. Then he smiled back. "Let's go to the beach," he suggested.

Kat's expression turned into a scrunched up mixture between a grin and a scowl. She shook her head. "I tried to make toaster strudel earlier – it didn't go…according to plan. I can't operate simple kitchen appliances right now, let alone a car."

"We'll take my bike."

She shook her head even more vehemently, sending a mass of brown waves twirling around her face. "You think I'm ready to die today?" she asked and immediately answered her own rhetorical question. "No."

"I said 'Let's go to the beach', not 'Let me dismember your body and hide it in a place they'll never find it'."

"Look down there." Kat clumsily pulled Patrick towards her window and pointed to his bike which could just be seen gleaming dangerously on the dark road. "That down there…is a death wish waiting to be fulfilled."

"No it's not. I ride on it all the time and clearly I'm still on top form," Patrick teased as he swept his hand over his torso.

"Obviously you're a freak of nature. But for me that is my demise down there, especially in my current, less-than-lucid state. And anyway, even if I wanted to go, there's no way I am going to attempt to negate the crowd of hormonal teenagers downstairs. Where's Moses when you need him?"

Patrick made himself comfortable on Kat's bed. "So, if we're not going to the beach we will have to find some other way to occupy our time," he said, fully expecting her to tell him to get off her bed.

To his surprise she plopped herself down next to him, lying on her back, staring at the smooth, white ceiling. "There is something recklessly cavalier about the amount of innuendos you can cram into a sentence and a smirk," she huffed.

"Just one of my many talents."

Kat frowned and scratched her neck. The bracelets and rings on her left hand glinted in the low lighting of her room. She kept on scowling before she began to speak. "Patrick?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think that I act like I'm perfect?"

Patrick examined her profile. "Kat, I think you're way too drunk to be getting existential."

She turned to him with a pleading, appallingly persuasive look in her eyes.

"Fine," he sighed, "I think you're so preoccupied with trying to be a good person that you sometimes forget to see life lightly. Shit happens; nobody's perfect."

"Way to kill my buzz, Verona."

"Oh, I'm sure we can think of worse things than that. Oppression in Myanmar, Colony Collapse Disorder, Mutual Assured Destruction...come on Kat," he nudged her with his elbow, "this is your favourite game; let the negativity flow."

Kat frowned as she was attempting to think of an appropriate response. "Well, I do have this theory that I'm going to look like Sally Field when I'm older," she confessed darkly.

Patrick crossed his arms behind his head and shrugged. "Not necessarily a bad thing – she's a GMILF."

Laughter bubbled out of Kat happily, "I am going to mentally circumvent that acronym."

She leaned in ever so slightly and studied his face. For a moment Patrick thought she would kiss him and debated whether it would be morally acceptable to kiss her back in her inebriated state. He needn't have worried, however.

"Do you sometimes wear guyliner?" she asked seriously.

Patrick smirked. "Yeah, but that's not the worst of it."

"What is?"

He took a deep breath. "I know first-hand that Joey Donner is a lousy kisser."

Kat smacked his arm. "Liar!" She giggled, "He only goes for tiny bundles of…I don't know…cotton candy laced with a bitchy serving of arsenic."

"Do I detect a hint of resentment towards Chastity Church?" Patrick laughed.

She nodded. "I don't like her. She sucks. Why must she always act so…sucky?"

"Well she does have that giant rolling pin stuck up her ass."

"Really?" Kat's eyes widened. "Poor thing," she muttered.

Patrick shot her a quizzical look. "I was joking."

"Oh." Then she huffed. "Well, how am I supposed to know that? I've just drunk my body weight in beer, which by the way tastes like tree pee. Some things just don't compute in my head right now."

"Don't worry;" Patrick said, petting her head, "it's just your old friend sarcasm, not theoretical physics."

Kat shook her head, "That comparison simply won't do – I'm drunk. As much as it pains me to say it, right now I can only think in terms of sex and food."

Patrick grinned, "There are so many ways I could work that to my advantage, but for now I will just revise my former statement and assure you that it's sarcasm, not a _croquembouche_."

Kat looked up at him through her lashes. "It's scary that you know that word." Her expression brightened. "While we're on the subject of food…will you make me pancakes? I'm hungry."

"If you want food, does that mean you want sex, too? 'Cause you know, I don't serve to minors."

Kat rolled her eyes. "Usually I would be so up for verbal sparring, but right now, I'm drunk and hungry. So help me out here."

Patrick smirked. "No."

She smiled at him like a carpet trader at a bazaar. "I am willing to substitute pancakes for homemade coconut macaroons," she bargained, clearly convinced that she was offering him a great deal.

"God, you would actually steal cookies from a little kid right now, wouldn't you?"

Kat considered this. "I can't say that it's completely impossible…" Her thoughtful demeanour quickly turned devious. "…Which is why you should make me pancakes. You could save that innocent, hypothetical child a lot of heartache. Think of it as a charitable contribution to society."

"Charitable acts aren't really my forte; I prefer to do cool stuff with power tools."

"You and my Grandpa would have got along great; he loved only two things in life – DIY and the War."

Patrick laughed. "I don't enjoy murder. You know the serial killer rumour isn't really true, right?"

Kat's forehead scrunched up. "What about the one where your daily breakfast for the last ten years has consisted of a baby duckling stewed in the juice of twenty freshly squeezed dandelions?"

"I'll admit - it's an acquired taste," he shrugged.

"And seeing as I have so elegantly steered the conversation back to the subject of breakfast; how about those pancakes?" Kat said, aiming a hopeful smile at Patrick.

"Fine," he relented, "but don't be surprised if they go the same way as your toaster strudel." Patrick rolled off Kat's bed and held out a hand for her to follow.

Kat walked unsteadily out of her room, and stumbled in a moment of lax caution.

"Stupid carpet," she said, looking back at the offending piece of flooring. "I don't think it likes me."

Patrick smiled. "Hop on," he said, pointing to his back, "you can't be trusted with your own limbs right now and I don't particularly feel like making an unscheduled trip to the emergency room tonight. The people there are still wary of me since I brought them that band geek who may or may not have had his right arm nibbled off."

Kat clambered onto Patrick's back and he wound his hands around the back of her knees to hold her to him tightly. While descending the stairs with his precious, drunk cargo he allowed himself to run his thumb over the soft skin of her thigh once. Twice.

"Thank you for carrying me," Kat whispered into his ear before leaning forward slightly to place a soft peck on his cheek.

He set her down at the bottom of the stairs. The house was, thankfully, empty, except for Bianca who was left elbow deep in the evidence of a rockin' party.

Kat scurried to the kitchen and began to open cupboards, throwing random breakfast ingredients onto the kitchen island. In the case of the bag of flour this resulted in a powdery cloud of starchy, ground cereal dusting the kitchen. "Whoops."

"Kat, I've just about got the kitchen clean again!" Bianca complained as Patrick gathered up the ingredients and began to throw them into a large mixing bowl.

Kat shrugged. "It's your own fault. This was your party and I still don't know why you wanted to have it in the first place."

Bianca rolled her eyes and sighed. "Because I don't want to end up pretty but unseen like Lindsay Lohan's Spring Fling dress in _Mean Girls_."

"It worries me that I actually get that reference," Kat huffed at her sister, "You're a terrible influence." She took her seat at the kitchen island and watched Patrick silently as he was mixing the pancake batter and heating a pan.

"Your _croquembouche_ does funny things to me," she said after a while.

"Eww, I did not want to know that," Bianca said as she swept the last of the streamers away.

Kats eyes widened. "No! No, it's not a euphemism for anything. Eww."

Bianca shrugged. "Whatever, I'm going to vacuum the landing now. Apparently, someone emptied a family pack of sprinkles onto the carpet – they're _everywhere_. Now I know why they call them Hundreds and Thousands."

"So," Patrick said after Bianca had run upstairs, "what about my _croquembouche_?"

Kat shook her head. "It's weird."

"Weird?"

She shrugged.

"Kaaaat…" He teased while he poured some batter into the pan.

"The way you say it does weird things to me, ok?" Kat exclaimed. "Your French accent is strangely good, but I think it's mainly the voice."

She scratched her head. "You know, sometimes I wonder how deep you could really go with that. If you spoke as low as you're able to it probably wouldn't be audible for normal humans, not even for you. And if you tried to go even lower than that, you'd go full circle and it'd be ultrasonic or something and eventually we could hear it again; like drilling a hole to the centre of the earth and then thinking 'Meh, I'll just keep going' and coming out on the other side of the world."

Patrick was stunned for a moment. "Umm…talkative drunk?"

Kat groaned. "I _really_ have to stop doing that!"

Patrick slid a plateful of pancakes towards her. "Don't bother, I kind of like it."

"Good." Kat buttered the top pancake happily. "So, have thought about what you want to do after school?"

"Where did that change in topic come from?"

Kat shrugged. "I was just thinking that you could have a great career in talk radio or something," she said before taking the first bite of pancake, smiling when she tasted it.

"Kat, you are inadvertently implying that my face is not fit for television."

She smirked. "Not that inadvertently." She continued to smile at him as she popped another piece of pancake into her mouth. After a moment the smile began to fade very rapidly.

"Patrick."

"Yeah?"

She slid off the bar stool unhappily. "Hold my hair," she said before dashing to the guest bathroom.

***

**A/N: **This was written with the help of Frightened Rabbit, The Ramones and several rewinds of Larry Miller singing 'No More Mr. Man-Boy'. Officially my favourite new song.


End file.
